On Ordinary Parenting
by EmRose92
Summary: Poor Mrs. Ramsey doesn't understand how five-year-old Lily Watson knows so much about crime scenes, advanced weaponry, and complicated medical terminology. Determined to get to the bottom of the situation, she calls in Lily's parents - the perfectly pleasant, average, normal Mr. and Mrs. Watson - for a conference. "Appearances can be deceiving" has never been more accurate...
1. The Mother

I don't have much experience with writing comedy/light-hearted fics that don't have any real drama in them at all, so this is a bit of an experiment. It'll be three chapters, and stems from a "what-if" scenario a coworker and I came up with when we should have been working *cough*. I'm usually not one to write OCs, but it was kind of fun to look at "Mr. and Mrs. Psychopath" from an outside point of view...plus let myself dream that Mary will survive long enough to see a child grow up to be old enough for primary school (please, Mofftiss?).

Reviews are, as always, welcome. Thanks for stopping by!

-Emrose

* * *

**On Ordinary Parenting**

Mrs. Ramsey considered herself to be a fairly understanding, tolerant, kind sort of woman. She was, after all, a primary school teacher, and all primary school teachers had to have a considerable amount of patience and tact on principle.

But Mrs. Ramsey had never had to deal with a problem like the problem that was Lily Amelia Watson before, and she was feeling rather affronted, slightly frustrated, and more than a little concerned.

It wasn't Lily that was the problem, really-she was a sweet, intelligent girl with a large vocabulary for her age. She shared nicely with the other children, always washed her hands before snack time without a fuss, and made friends easily. She tended to be a little bossy, but none of the other kids minded-the shy ones all worshiped the ground she walked on. Since she was always careful to include all of them in her games, Mrs. Ramsey let her bossiness slide. She was a pretty little thing, with white-blonde hair and large blue eyes, ears that stuck out a little, and a nose that turned up pertly on the end.

Lily Watson's one fault was an incredibly active, descriptive, and altogether far too morbid imagination for a five-year-old little girl.

* * *

_"And now you're dead, and you lay down there. No, there." Lily gestured imperiously at a very specific patch of floor, upon which a little dark-haired boy lay down obediently. "And you've been poisoned, and we have to 'cide who killed you. Prob'ly arsnice, that's bad poison. And you, you're the 'tective, but you don' know how to find the nose on your face, an' so you call me."_

_Mrs. Ramsey had caught only snatches of these directions, but what she heard had been alarming. She had hurried over and broken up the murder investigation, much to Lily's disappointment. Then she had pulled Lily aside during naptime and asked her where she had learned such a dreadful game._

_"Sherlock," Lily had said promptly. "He teaches me 'bout poisonings so's I can grow up to be a 'tective."_

_"Who is Sherlock?" Mrs. Ramsey had asked. _

_Lily had looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "Sherlock Homes," she had said, putting one hand on her hip and shaking her head. "He comes 'round for tea and tells me bedtime stories when Daddy's not home. He's a famous 'tective, an' he solves crimes when the p'lice don' know what's what."_

_"Sherlock Holmes?" the name was vaguely familiar to Mrs. Ramsey, and she resolved to look him up on the internet as soon as the children went home for the afternoon. "Well, dear, I don't think we ought to play poisoning the other children anymore. It's not a very nice game."_

_Lily considered this, and though she seemed less-than-happy, she finally nodded, lips pursed in a little pout. "Yes, Mrs. Ramsey."_

_"Good girl. Be a dear and take your nap now."_

_Lily walked away with a decided slump to her shoulders, but Mrs. Ramsey saw her playing a muted game of house with the other children later that afternoon. She put the entire incident out of her mind-surely the matter had resolved itself, and Lily was such a good girl..._

_A few days later, she caught Lily teaching the children how to splint a broken arm. Slightly strange, but she simply broke up the game and suggested ring-around-the-rosy instead. The next morning, Lily mentioned something about a suicide and Scotland Backyard at snacktime, which she filed away mentally but did her utmost to ignore. Two days later, Mrs. Ramsey could have sworn she overheard Lily talking about the inner mechanics of a handgun in surprising detail, but surely she must have been mistaken._

_No five-year-old child who couldn't properly pronounce dental consonants yet could possibly know terms like "extractor," "cylinder stop stud" and "stirrup pin." _

_It wasn't until later the next week that she found real cause for alarm._

_"And if you stab them here and here..." _

_Mrs. Ramsey looked up from where she was playing tinker toys with two quiet little boys to see, much to her horror, that Lily was calmly displaying a doll that had two plastic knives from the kitchen set stello-taped to its head to a rapt audience. _

"_They bleed on the brain and die right off. And if you put it here..." she ripped one of the knives off and taped it to the left shoulder, "they hafta do 'stensive surg'ry, an' you might die from the shock 'fore they getcha patched up..."_

_Mrs. Ramsey confiscated the doll and set Lily in the corner to read by herself for the remainder of the afternoon. Then she left the children with another teacher, went into her office, and called Mrs. Watson._

* * *

Mrs. Watson was a cheerful, pretty woman with white-blonde hair and big, blue eyes. She shook Mrs. Ramsey's hand with a firm, feminine grip and took a seat opposite the desk, sliding her handbag to the ground and taking off her gray-knit coat while she kept up a pleasant stream of chatter about the adorable picture of Mrs. Ramsey and her nieces that hung on the wall and how nice the school looked since they'd redone the landscaping last spring.

When they'd both settled in, a brief, awkward silence fell and Mrs. Watson looked at Mrs. Ramsey expectantly.

"So," she said. "Something about Lily?"

Mrs. Ramsey cleared her throat and nodded. She wasn't sure exactly how to approach this conversation, and looking at the kind, open, intelligent face of the woman before her, she wondered suddenly if she might have been mistaken. This was not the face or posture of a woman who would teach her children about handguns and how to murder fellow schoolmates.

"Oh, yes," she said brightly, clasping her hands in front of her for lack of something else to do with them. "She's a very sweet girl, Mrs. Watson, I want to make that clear…she's truly a joy to have in the classroom. So smart, too—you and Mr. Watson must be doing _something_ right!"

Mrs. Watson laughed politely. "Well, thanks very much," she said.

"She's so helpful around the classroom…always very willing to do whatever I ask. And I'd say she's top in her class…"

"I know, I know, she's always been a bit of a know-it-all…"

"No, no, not at all, never comes across that way. Lily is always sweet to the other children…"

"Yes, she's very sweet." Mrs. Watson laughed lightly again. There was a brief pause. "You asked me in to tell me how nice and clever she is, then?"

Mrs. Ramsey cleared her throat again. "Well, of course that's part of…well, no, I suppose not. Although I just wanted to let you know how much I truly do enjoy her."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Ramsey reached for a pen, just to give her fingers something to fiddle with, but then she thought that might make her seem nervous, so she patted the desk awkwardly instead and interlocked her fingers again.

"Mrs. Watson, I've overheard Lily telling the other children some…well, some rather alarming stories," she said. "It seems rather ridiculous, and I'd have thought I was imagining it had I not heard it on several occasions."

"What sort of stories?" Mrs. Watson asked, her brow creasing a little.

"Well, let's just say Lily has a very vibrant imagination," Mrs. Ramsey said delicately. "And the other children just worship the ground she walks on. She's very good with them, but I'm worried that some things she says might be inappropriate for young children to be discussing, particularly in school."

"What sort of stories, Mrs. Ramsey?" Mrs. Watson asked again, and her kind, blue eyes flickered with something like impatience, but she was still smiling in slight concern. Mrs. Ramsey wished she had something to fiddle with. Oh, how she just _loved _ this part of her job.

"Stories about…well, about poison. Arsenic, I think it was. And she was teaching the children how to splint up a broken bone just last week!" she laughed, but it sounded forced and she wished instantly that she hadn't.

But Mrs. Watson was laughing too; her laughter sounded just as forced as Mrs. Ramsey's felt.

"Oh, that would be my husband's fault," she said, laying a hand comfortably on the desk and leaning forward. She rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. "He's a doctor, see, and he's got this horrible habit of bringing his work home with him. Lily must have overheard us talking about one of his patients."

"Well, that would certainly explain it," Mrs. Ramsey said, and her lips stretched in a wide, fake grin that matched Mrs. Watson's. "And the arsenic? Another case from your husband's work?"

"Oh, it must be," Mrs. Watson said, settling back in her chair. "He's always talking about all kinds of medical jargon even I don't understand half the time."

"Are you in the medical profession too, then, Mrs. Watson?"

"I'm a nurse, yes. But Dr. Watson has a surgical background, and he forgets that I don't have the same training he does." She smiled comfortably. "I'll talk to Lily, shall I? I'd hate to have her disturbing the other children."

Mrs. Ramsey had the panicked feeling that the conversation was wrapping up, and she hadn't even mentioned the worst bits yet.

"It might be best coming from her parents, yes," she said. "Maybe if Mr. Watson could speak with her?"

"I'll talk to him," Mrs. Watson said, and now she was reaching for her handbag. "I'm sorry, but I've really got to dash—I'm due back at the office at 4."

"Oh, well," Mrs. Ramsey said, and fumbled for a moment as Mrs. Watson waited, wide-eyed with expectance again. "Well, you see, Mrs. Watson, Lily has also been talking about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and several of her stories involve some rather disturbing…"

"Oh, has she mentioned him too, then?" Mrs. Watson let go of her handbag. Her eyes were bright and keen now, and the corner of her mouth was twitching. She looked positively impish. "Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Ramsey?"

"Only briefly," Mrs. Ramsey admitted. "He's a detective of sorts, isn't he?"

"Of sorts. He and my husband were flatmates before we married, and he comes round now and then when he's not off solving his little mysteries. Sherlock is a wonderful storyteller with an absolutely _brilliant_ imagination, Mrs. Ramsey, and I'm afraid Lily hangs on his every word. I'll have a word with him next time he comes to tea. Is that everything, then?"

Mrs. Ramsey found herself nodding, though it certainly was _not _everything. But Mrs. Watson was slinging on her coat and chatting about how much Lily liked the other children and how good it had been of Mrs. Ramsey to address her concerns, and how she was sure there wouldn't be any more incidents.

And of course, there wouldn't be. Mrs. Watson had such a calming, utterly _normal_ presence, and as the door closed behind her, Mrs. Ramsey couldn't help but relax back into her chair. Surely she'd been over-exaggerating, anyway. All children had imaginations, and with a surgeon for a father, of course Lily's might be a little more medically-inclined.

But as she packed up her bags to head home that evening, she couldn't erase a niggling doubt that maybe, just maybe, she was missing something…

* * *

"_You'll have to talk to him, John. He's been telling Lily about crime scenes, and she's talking about them in all their gory detail…_and_ she was teaching them how to splint a bone, and poor Mrs. Ramsey said something about arsenic…"_

"_What? I certainly didn't teach her about arsenic…"_

"_Well, I don't think Sherlock taught her how to splint a leg, husband mine. Don't bristle, John, I'm not accusing you…you just need to be a bit more careful with her bedtime stories, maybe tell her "_Hansel and Gretel" _or _"Snow Drop" _for once. You know, normal little girl stories. And I want you to talk to Sherlock. He's got to stop putting ideas in her head too."_

"_Why can't you talk to him?"_

_Silence._

"_Right, I'll talk to him. It's fine. I'll talk to him."_

"_Tell him if he doesn't quit telling her about murders and serial killers that I'll come after him myself."_

"_That ought to scare the pants off him."_

"_I don't care about his pants, I just care that he stops filling our daughter's head with murder mysteries. She's only five years old…"_

"_I'll talk to him, Mary. Don't worry. I'll talk to him. Promise."_

* * *

TBC...


	2. The Father

Thank you so much for all of your kind reviews! Know that I read every single one and that they just make my day. You're the reason I keep posting stories!

Hope you enjoy this next chapter: it's John's turn in the hot seat.

-Emrose

* * *

Several weeks passed, and Mrs. Ramsey was quite content. Lily Watson had been rather subdued, but as cheerful and sweet as ever. Mrs. Watson had rung Mrs. Ramsey a few days after they'd spoken in her office to check up on her daughter, and Mrs. Ramsey had been more than happy to give a glowing report.

And then that incident with the serial killer in Berkshire hit the newspapers, and little Lily Watson was mysteriously absent for several days. Mrs. Ramsey called the Watsons once or twice just to check up on her, but it went through to a voicemail both times. Once, to Mrs. Watson's inbox:

_"Hi, it's Mary Watson, sorry I couldn't take your call. We're out of town for a bit and reception might be a bit shoddy. Leave a message and I'll call you back."_

She tried Mr. Watson's number a few days later:

_"Hi, Doctor Watson. Can't reach the phone right now, but I'll be back in town in a few days. Leave a message and I'll get back to you. If this is a medical emergency, my secretary will know how to reach me. Sorry. Thanks."_

She was slightly miffed that they hadn't contacted her to tell her that Lily would be going on holiday, but she supposed that she could wait a few days before she got worried.

Lily was back in class the following Monday, bright-eyed, all smiles and manic energy. Mrs. Ramsey's heart sunk straight through her chest and landed somewhere in the vicinity of her toes.

Three days and nine aborted stories about thrilling murders, chases, medical emergencies, and too many mentions of this Sherlock Holmes later, Mrs. Ramsey admitted defeat.

She rung Mrs. Watson.

* * *

Mrs. Watson was unavailable, but Mr. Watson had managed to take an hour from the clinic.

Mrs. Ramsey was more than a little surprised to see him walk through the door—after hearing the latest from Lily (how fast you'd bleed to death from a scalp wound, how to spot a trained assassin in a crowd, how someone's left little finger can tell if you if they're lying, etc.), she was expecting…well, she wasn't sure exactly what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the kind-faced, middle-aged man on the short side of average that shook her hand politely and then took a seat opposite her.

The man was wearing a pale green jumper and jeans, for pity's sake.

Hardly the look of a father who would teach his own daughter how to suture a scalp or set a bone.

It was easy to see where Lily got her nose, Mrs. Ramsey thought distractedly as she shuffled papers around and chatted aimlessly about the weather in London and did he think the clouds might clear up a bit that afternoon? Mr. Watson had fine crinkles around his eyes and a friendly, albeit slightly distant, smile, and his nose turned up a little on the end just like his daughter's. He clasped his hands in his lap, back ramrod straight, head tilted politely to one side as he waited.

Well, Mrs. Ramsey thought, he certainly wasn't one for idle conversation. She had hoped that they would have a chance to break the ice before she started telling him that his daughter was wreaking havoc with her classroom, but he seemed anxious to jump right in.

"So…" he said, pursing his lips in an exaggerated O. He tilted his head at her. "Lily?"

Yes, his wife certainly had the conversational skills of the two.

"Mr. Watson, I'm concerned about your daughter," Mrs. Ramsey said, sighing internally and clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. She was determined to get to the root of the problem this time, and she wasn't going to let nerves stop her from saying absolutely everything she had to say.

"Yes, so I gathered. Has she been talking about her…um, her holiday?"

He sounded alert and chipper, but his hands contracted slightly in his lap, and Lily's little voice echoed suddenly in her head.

_"Liars allus have a twitch…you just gotta knows where to look for it..."_

"Yes, she was," she said, and, seeing Mr. Watson open his mouth again, barreled on before he could speak. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Watson, where exactly did you go on holiday? She's full of stories again, and I'm sure your wife told you what kind of stories we talked about in our last meeting."

"Yes, she did," Mr. Watson said, and he looked vaguely uncomfortable. "You'll have to forgive me…this is usually Mary's area, I'm not much involved with Lily's schooling…"

Mrs. Ramsey noticed that he'd skirted her first question about their holiday, but decided not to press the issue. That was, perhaps, a little too personal for a parent-teacher conference. "Where do you think she could have picked up on such ideas? Mrs. Watson said you were a doctor…"

"I am, yes. GP. Lily…well." He let out an audible breath, but his lips curved up in an affectionate smile. "Lily, she's very precocious. And curious, mind you. I'm sure you've seen…well, she asks about my work, and I'm afraid I haven't the heart to tell her she's too young to hear about cracked skulls and broken bones. Her imagination takes it from there."

"But surely you don't tell her about…"

"Nothing in detail," Mr. Watson said quickly, looking briefly taken aback at the very suggestion, as if the thought had never occurred to him. His left hand flexed gently in his lap. "I'd like to think that I'm rather more responsible than _that_, Mrs. Ramsey."

"I didn't mean to suggest you weren't."

Mr. Watson shifted, crossed one leg over the other, and cleared his throat again. "If I were to promise you I'll talk to her about it…"

"Well, I'm sure that would help, yes," Mrs. Ramsey said. "But there's more to her stories than just medical situations, I'm afraid. She mentions someone called…"

But she was interrupted by a faint, generic ringtone issuing from Mr. Watson's jacket, and he pulled his mobile from his pocket with an apologetic look. He glanced at the number, hesitated, and then thumbed across the screen and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Sorry about that."

"If it's a patient, I don't want to keep you," Mrs. Ramsey said. Now that they'd been talking for a few minutes, she was realizing that Mr. Watson had the same calming presence as his wife. A natural easiness about him that made her trust him innately—already she was wondering again if she had jumped to conclusions. A GP with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm smile surely couldn't be held accountable for a daughter with an overactive imagination.

"Oh, it's not a patient," Mr. Watson said, and then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "although he's in a lot of danger of _becoming _one," but _that_ couldn't have been right. "Mrs. Ramsey, I really, really do appreciate everything you're doing for Lil. She talks about you a lot. All good, good things. You're an abso_lut_ely brilliant influence on her. Can't thank you enough, really."

Mrs. Ramsey had the decency to blush. Charming, too. "Well, she's certainly a joy to have in class. Such a darling."

"Yes, she is." Mr. Watson smiled again, and it made his eyes twinkle in his lined face. "She's our first, well, our only, and she's just turned our lives around. I'm afraid we're novices when it comes to parenting, so having teachers like you is certainly a…well, certainly a gift."

"Well, I certainly do my best, but I wouldn't say I'm…"

"I mean every word." He smiled again, and Mrs. Ramsey coughed. There was something else she had needed to mention…something about…oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes. But as she opened her mouth to ask, Mr. Watson's mobile jangled again and he pulled it from his pocket, murmuring an embarrassed apology again. He glanced at the screen, and his shoulders dropped exasperatedly. He silenced the phone again, but looked up at her ruefully.

"I am _really_ sorry, but I've got to take this," he said. "Afraid it's a bit of an emergency. I'll talk to Lily about the stories, and I'll stick with fairy tales now, shall I? That should take care of all this."

_And Sherlock Holmes? _Mrs. Ramsey signed internally. "Of course. Thank you so much for your time." And then, before he could rise or she could lose her nerve, she said very quickly, "One last question, Mr. Watson…do you know a Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

A whole slew of emotions flitted across his face, too fast for her to process. Then he was simply looking at her with that kind, vague smile from the beginning of the interview back on his face. "He's a…family friend. Why?"

"Lily talks about him," Mrs. Ramsey said. "Certain things she's said have made me think that he might have something to do with…"

But Mr. Watson's mobile was ringing again, the jangling strangely insistent, and she cut herself off. "Please, take that. I don't mean to keep you."

There was an undeniable look of relief on his face that Mrs. Ramsey filed away to ponder later. He stood, fist not holding his mobile clenching and unclenching gently at his side.

"Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Ramsey. Truly, thank you. It's good to know that Lil is being looked after while she's at school."

"Oh, it's no trouble…"

He smiled, clasped her hand gently, complimented her dress, and strode from the room, brushing a thumb sharply across his mobile.

Doctors. Always in a hurry.

But as Mrs. Ramsey sank back into her chair, she felt a little better. She wasn't sure how she had thought that Mrs. Watson had all the conversational skills—Mr. Watson was certainly every bit as personable and likeable as his sweet wife.

He would talk to his daughter, and Lily might just be regaling her classmates with retellings of "The Ugly Duckling" and "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" from now on.

Of course, with her luck, it'd be "Jack the Giant Killer" and "Bluebeard."

But then, she couldn't have everything.

* * *

_"I didn't know what to say to her, Mary, I really didn't. She was asking about Lily's "holiday," what was I supposed to say? That we spent the week tracking down a gang of serial killers in Berkshire? That she really wasn't on holiday at all, but sitting at home with Mrs. Hudson and the dog while her parents tracked down a gang of psychopaths with the world's only consulting detective? I mean, really, what was I supposed to say?"_

_"Well, what _did_ you say?"_

_"I sort of…complimented her a bit."_

_"You didn't."_

_"Well, I didn't know what else…"_

_ "John Hamish, you turned the Watson charm on poor Mrs. Ramsey?"_

_"Don't laugh…Mary, stop laughing. I couldn't think what else…Mary, stop. It isn't funny. Oh, for pity's sake…"_

_"You _complimented her a bit_? John Watson, you are truly impossible."_

_"I've been told. Now come on, Mrs. Watson, let's confront our daughter."_

_"Oh, no. This one is all your fault, John. Yours and Sherlock's. _You_ confront our daughter."_

_"Hang on, I'm not the only one with a background in medicine around here. Or a history of telling our daughter unsuitable bedtime stories. I've heard the censored "I was a CIA agent" stories you tell her when you think I'm not listening. There, see, you can't deny it."_

_"At least I'm not teaching her how to poison people or _clean a handgun_."_

_"Let's not bring that up again. She was curious."_

_"And she's got you wrapped around her little finger."_

_"She does not."_

_Silence._

_"Yes, alright, alright, okay. But Sherlock…"_

_"Are you going to talk to him?"_

_"I've already talked to him."_

_"And he's obviously deleted it or something. Talk to him again."_

_"I'll try. But he's bloody Sherlock, he's only going to keep deleting it."_

_"Then keep telling him until he stores it somewhere. And for pity's sake, John, don't flirt with Mrs. Ramsey again. I might get jealous."_

* * *

The next chapter wasn't supposed to happen, but Sherlock decided to invade my story (and what was I supposed to do but let him?), so there will actually be four chapters. Unless something else unexpected happens.

Reviews are always welcome!


	3. The Phone Call

Chapter Three: the chapter that was never supposed to be but has ended up being my favorite of them all so far. Funny how that works.

Emrose

* * *

Mrs. Ramsey was at her wits end.

The children had gone home, and she sat alone in the little square office with the one blue accent wall that adjoined her classroom. She was quite still, staring at the wall, thinking vaguely of her cat, a dentist appointment, and what she was going to make for dinner.

In between all of these mundane sorts of thoughts, the thought of Lily Watson swam in and out like a goldfish slowly circling in a bowl.

Disconnected words circled around and around her head too, like _murder_, _detectives, footprints, red-headed league, typographer, Stonehenge, kidnap, _and _Holmes. _Completely unsuitable thoughts to associate with a five-year-old girl in pigtails, but then, there you were.

Mrs. Ramsey shook herself from her stupor and reached for her mobile. There was nothing else for it. Charming or no, Mr. and Mrs. Watson were going to properly explain themselves this time. As much as she didn't want to believe that they were responsible for their daughter's oddities (and oddities she could handle, sure, most of her kids had at least one strange little quirk, like little Tommy who carried a ragged copy of _Peter Pan _wherever he went and the little girl who liked to dip her peanut butter sandwiches in orange juice), she had no alternative explanation.

But before she could pick her mobile up it began to ring, a cheerful, pleasant little ditty. The screen lit up with a faint, bluish glow, highlighting a picture of her and one of her nieces at a Manchester United football game the previous spring.

_Unknown number_, the screen declared.

In Mrs. Ramsey's experience, unknown numbers either meant bad news or spam calls, so she never answered them. Today, however, she would rather talk to a telemarketer or take a survey than call Mrs. Watson one more time. It was with a distinct sense of mingled relief and why-_am_-I-prolonging-the-inevitable that she thumbed across the screen.

"Hello?"

"_Mrs. Ramsey." _The voice on the other end was cool, silky, and smooth, and had one of those fake smiles in it that she heard so often in the voices of parents who were trying to convince her that their children weren't _really_ all _that _bad.

"Speaking." Definitely someone trying to sell something.

"_My name is Sherlock Holmes. You've been planning to contact Dr. and Mrs. Watson this afternoon, but I think you may find it a very bad idea."_

For a moment she sat flabbergasted, unsure whether to comment on the fact that this was the apparently rather infamous Sherlock Holmes on the line or ask how in the world he knew that she was going to call the Watsons.

"_Don't bother asking how I know," _the voice said smoothly. _"Lily Watson and I have been having a discussion, and based on the rather elaborate and detailed description of some of the anecdotes with which she has been regaling your classroom, reason dictates that you would be…hmm, more than slightly inclined to phone her parents. Seeing as it is not yet 5:00pm, you have been putting off the call by reasoning that they couldn't possibly be home from work yet, so why bother calling when they won't pick up? You're hoping, of course, that you'll forget or something important will come up that will stop you from making the call at all this evening, but of course _that's _not going to happen, because you're you teach _children _for a living and therefore have a reasonably solid memory for facts pertaining to your charges, and what on earth could come up that would be so important as to keep you from your phone? You're a single, middle-aged primary school teacher living alone with your cat, and your sister and her children are out of town on holiday, so there is absolutely nothing for you to do tonight but go home and watch crap telly and wish you had somewhere more exciting to be and something less embarrassing to do than call in Dr. and Mrs. Watson for a third, utterly useless parent-teacher conference."_

Here the voice took a deep breath, and there was silence, the kind of awkward, heavy silence that left your ears ringing.

Mrs. Ramsey spluttered. She was offended, she was horrified, she was faintly impressed, and she was utterly indignant.

"Mr. Holmes, I…I don't know how…really, who are you, and how did you get my number?"

"_What? Really, I just told you all that and you want to know how I got your number?" _he sounded incredulous, and he even had the nerve to chuckle. _"Just how intelligent do you have to _be _to teach school these days? Lily Watson, Mrs. Ramsey. I acquired your number from her parent's address book. Quaint, really, Mrs. Watson still has one in a drawer somewhere, thinks I don't know where it is, but I do."_

"And what," Mrs. Ramsey said (she was getting her breath back now, and was starting to feel the teacher mantle settle around her shoulders, the one that made her impervious to snarky, angry, or judgmental parents), "is the purpose of your call?"

"_Didn't I make that clear? No, I suppose not, well, not clear to _you_, at any rate. The purpose of my call, Mrs. Ramsey, is to inform you that calling the Watsons again is completely unnecessary and will only cause both you and them undue stress and that you'd be better off letting it all go."_

On the surface, the smooth baritone sounded just as arrogant, languid, and utterly casual as it always had, but though Mrs. Ramsey might not have been a certified genius, she spoke "parent."

Sherlock Holmes was nervous.

And under all that bluster and bravado, he was hoping with all his might that she wasn't going to call the Watsons. Why? Well, that was fairly obvious.

If Lily Watson hadn't learned how to splint a bone or treat a concussion from her father, and she hadn't learned the names and side effects of stimulants and narcotics from her mother, she had to have learned it all from Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Ramsey smiled coolly into the phone. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid that how I handle my students and my students' parents is entirely up to me. As you are no blood relation to Lily _and _I have reason to believe that _you, _sir, have been behind all of Lily's little…stories…your call has only convinced me of the necessity of phoning Mr. and Mrs. Watson and once and informing them of your very negative influence on their daughter."

"_Mrs. Ramsey, jumping to conclusions will get you nowhere."_

"I am not _jumping to conclusions,_ Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Ramsey took a deep breath, and stood up to pace the room. "Based on the stories Lily has been telling in class and her entirely normal, sweet, wonderful parents, _reason dictates_ that you are the culprit."

Sherlock Holmes had an abrupt, violent coughing fit. _"Normal…sweet…"_

"Yes, they are," Mrs. Ramsey said loudly over the top of his continued hacks. She had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was actually heaving with laughter, and she faltered for a moment before squaring her shoulders and forging on. "I've met them both, and they're both very pleasant. Very highly educated, lovely parents, and I'm sure they'd love to know what you're teaching their daughter while you're round to tea! I don't know how often you're a guest in their home, nor would I like to know, but I can assure you that you might be spending a great deal _less _time there once the poor Watsons know exactly what sort of dangerous nonsense you've been teaching their daughter!"

Sherlock Holmes had stopped laughing, and he nearly cut her off in his indignation. His voice had dropped, were it possible, several notches lower.

"_Nonsense? I have not been teaching her nonsense! It's all very relevant, very useful information that I can't expect you to understand…"_

"So you admit you _have _been teaching her all sorts of…of awful things about knives and guns and poisons!"

"_Guns? Where _have _you got the idea that I've been teaching her about guns? I deal with weaponry as little as possible, Mrs. Ramsey. I'm far more interested in teaching Lily about science. Poisons? Well…poisons, she'll need to know them all someday. Might as well start now."_

Again, Mrs. Ramsey felt that uncomfortable twitch at the base of her spine. He didn't _sound_ like he was lying, but then, who really knew with a man like this?

"And when," she asked, "would a little girl ever need to know anything at all about poisons?"

"_Everyone would benefit from knowing about poisons. Imagine how much safer the world would be."_

There was distinct vein of condescending sarcasm in his rumbling voice, and Mrs. Ramsey decided that she was quite done with this conversation.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't know on what authority you're making this call, but I assure you that I will be contacting Lily's parents, and I expect that _you _should expect a call from them as soon as I've told them about this conversation!"

"_Hardly. John isn't one to call. He'd rather be exasperated at me in person._"

"Well, I never…exasperation will be the least of your worries!"

But now Sherlock Holmes was laughing, and there was no mistaking it for a coughing fit this time. Mrs. Ramsey felt the sudden, urgent need to frighten this man so utterly and completely that he would never dream of brightening her mobile screen with his unknown number ever again.

"You do realize I could call the police and have you taken in for…for…"

But this clearly wasn't the right path to take, because Sherlock Holmes erupted into another round of deep-throated, rumbling laughter. _"For what, exactly? Telling a child bedtime stories?"_

"For telling her about violent crime scenes that I'm sure aren't supposed to be released to the public!"

"_I'm hardly telling her state secrets, Mrs. Ramsey. She's a little young for _that _yet. No, I'm afraid there's nothing at all that would interest the police about our dilemma."_

"Our dilemma? _We _are not in a dilemma, Mr. Holmes. The crisis is yours, I'm afraid."

"_Crisis? I'm not in crisis. Please."_

But there was that faint note of parent-anxiety in his voice again, and Mrs. Ramsey leapt on it.

"Are you not? I was under the impression that you called to ask me not to tell Mr. and Mrs. Watson about your so-called 'bedtime stories.' Are you worried they won't approve, Mr. Holmes?"

There was a brief silence, and Mrs. Ramsey sat back down in her desk chair and crossed her legs. She allowed herself a vindicated smile.

"That's it, isn't it? Mr. and Mrs. Watson don't know just how much you've been telling poor little Lily about…whatever it is you do. Have they asked you to stop the stories after the last few conversations I had with them? If I call again, might you be the one in hot water?"

"_I am never in 'hot water…'"_

"No? What would you call this?"

There was a long, dramatic sigh on the other end of the line. _"I maintain that it's in your best interest…you have no idea what you're getting into, Mrs. Ramsey, you really, really don't."_

But Mrs. Ramsey wasn't interested in continuing the conversation. She had this Sherlock Holmes exactly where she wanted him. She felt completely and utterly triumphant, and more than ready to storm over to the Watson home if need be and expose this rude, horrible man as the frankly awful houseguest he was.

"Mr. Holmes, I believe that I know exactly what I'm getting into."

"_Fine. On your own head."_

"No, Mr. Holmes, on yours."

"_Oh, really…"_

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I must cut our conversation short. Thank you for your call, and I do hope you enjoy your evening."

And she hung up on him.

* * *

_"Mrs. Ramsey called _again_, John. She wants both of us to come in this time. Together."_

"_What? Why? Hasn't all that been sorted?"_

"_Not if your best friend keeps coming round at Lily's bedtime or when she gets off school, it hasn't."_

"_You think Sherlock…"_

"_Well, I certainly haven't been telling her about the Red-Headed case you two gallivanted off on last week!"_

"_So, it was Sherlock."_

"_Are we feeling guilty, John?"_

"_Guilty? I don't feel guilty!"_

"_Ooh, you're such a fibber! It was you! You told her all about those illegal banknotes and poor Mr. Wilson while I was at the concert."_

"_In my defense, it wasn't just me."_

"_Oh, so you and Sherlock are tag-teaming it behind my back now, is that it?"_

"_Now, Mary, don't get upset…I told her not to tell anyone at school about that, I expressly told her…"_

"_Don't you 'now Mary' me, John Hamish Watson! Now, you and I are going to meet with Mrs. Ramsey tomorrow after school, and we are both going to be very civil, very calm, very apologetic, and very, very normal. Do you understand?"_

"_We _are_ normal. Oh, stop laughing, we are…no, really, we're perfectly ordin…Mary, stop. Breathe a little, huh? Mary…"_

"_Well, aren't we all so very happy in here. Did John try to be funny again?"_

"_Shaddup, Sherlock."_

"_Going to speak with Mrs. Ramsey again, are we?"_

"_No, you're not, we are. Why are you here, anyway?"_

"…_chatting with Lily."_

"_Chatting? Chatting about what, exactly?"_

"_Nice, normal, ordinary, everyday, boring people things, Mary, calm down…"_

"_Fibbing, Sherlock. Don't think I don't know about everything you've been telling her behind my back."_

"_Oh, we're speaking of fibbing now, are we? While we're on _that_ subject, she was just telling me about a simply fascinating story about a garroting in Surrey back in 2006. Not one I'm sure I'm familiar with…John?"_

"_I certainly didn't tell her any stories about a garroting in Surry in 2006. Mary? Care to elaborate?"_

"_Oh, don't look at me like that…it was a long time ago, that garroting, not like it was current news. Oh, and to clarify, _I _wasn't the one doing the garroting."_

"_Mary, darling, you've been telling Lily stories? I wouldn't have believed it of you."_

_"Alright, okay, I'll admit it, I'm guilty too. But that doesn't help us get past Mrs. Ramsey tomorrow."_

_"No, it doesn't."_

_"Well, you don't have to sound so delighted, Sherlock. Any brilliant ideas?"_

_"Hmm, one or two."_

_"Well? Sherlock, don't...well, fat lot of good he is."_

_"We'll just have to play it by ear, Mary. It's fine. We'll be fine. We're adults, we can handle our daughter's primary school teacher."_

_"Famous last words."_

_"You don't have to tell me."_

* * *

Reviews always welcome!


	4. The Interview

Well, I'm going to give up predicting how many chapters this is going to be. Carry on.

Oh, and thank you all so much for your reviews! They are by far my favorite sort of email!

Emrose

* * *

Mrs. Watson was a picture of parental concern. She was all polite smiles and chuckles, wide blue eyes and a warm handshake and small talk just like the last time she'd been in Mrs. Ramsey's office. She was wearing a warm gray sweater and dark blue jeans that turned up fashionably at the ankles, comfortable blue converse, a light blue jacket. Pretty, casual, ordinary, kind, faintly bemused at being back in Mrs. Ramsey's office but affable and pleasant.

Dr. Watson, on the other hand, looked exhausted. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he had sunk into a chair opposite the desk as soon as he'd shaken her hand with a faint, polite smile. He seemed content to lace his fingers in his lap and let his wife do the talking. He had already yawned twice, checked his watch once, and only answered monosyllabically when Mrs. Watson tried to include him in their conversation.

"Sorry," he finally said when Mrs. Ramsey had directed a friendly _what do you think, Dr. Watson? _at him. "Sorry, think about what? I must have drifted, it was a bit of a late…sorry, could you repeat that?"

"She asked what you thought about the new school commissioner, John," Mrs. Watson said, blinking widely at her husband. Dr. Watson grunted and sat up a little straighter, wrinkling his nose.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he said. "Um, yeah, Walker, wasn't it? Nice, seems like a nice bloke."

They both stared at him, and he seemed to realize that this was the wrong answer. "Well, I can't say…can't say I know much about it, honestly." He grinned sheepishly and looked at his wife for help—she patted his knee and rolled her eyes companionably at Mrs. Ramsey as if to say _men._

"Late nights at the clinic," she said. "He's a bit under the weather."

Dr. Watson cleared his throat again and shifted in his chair, blinking rapidly several times in what looked like an attempt to appear awake. "So, we're here to talk about Lily," he said with the same frank directness he'd approached the subject before (albeit with a slight edge that Mrs. Ramsey kindly attributed to the poor man's obvious exhaustion). Mrs. Watson coughed loudly just as Mr. Watson grunted sharply—if Mrs. Ramsey didn't know better, she'd have thought that he'd been kicked under the table.

"Oh, yes," she said. Pity they'd arrived at this already—she'd been having such a lovely time chatting with Mrs. Watson. They had _so _much in common, and she'd nearly forgotten the point of the Watsons' visit in the midst of their discoveries that they both enjoyed chamomile when they were feeling nauseous or chilled, adored Manchester United, and had distant relations in Chesterton.

"Well, I'm sure it can't be serious," Mrs. Watson said cheerfully. "She loves the fairy tales John's been reading her nights—can't get enough of them, in fact, she begs John for three or four every evening after I've already gone up…"

Mr. Watson shifted in his seat again and cleared his throat. Mrs. Watson's smile grew fixed on her face for a brief moment before her expression relaxed again and she looked at him fondly.

"And you're so good with her, John, you must have read her "Goldilocks" ten or twelve times by now."

"Oh, yeah, sure," he said. "Goldilocks, yeah."

"Well, that's wonderful," Mrs. Ramsey said carefully. "And I'm sure the stories are going marvelously, but there's something else…"

"I don't think she's asked about the clinic for…at least two weeks now, isn't it John?"

"Yeah, must be."

"Been so preoccupied with her school projects, she just _adored_ the one with the Paper Mache, Mrs. Ramsey. So creative, I don't know how you think of it all!"

"Pinterest," Mrs. Ramsey offered. "And I'm so glad she enjoyed it, Mrs. Watson, but…"

"Mary, please," Mrs. Watson insisted.

Mrs. Ramsey glanced at Dr. Watson, who smiled in her direction but said nothing. Mrs. Watson reached over and patted him on the leg again. "John, why don't you tell Mrs. Ramsey about what Lily said the other night."

"What Lily said…" he had gradually been sliding down in his seat, and he struggled back to an upright position, blinking furiously again, looking from his wife to Mrs. Ramsey. "Last night, she said…well, we were talking about…" he looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here, and once again glanced at his wife, who smiled broadly and took over as though he hadn't spoken at all.

"Pinterest, really? I wouldn't have believed it…haven't dared to get on myself yet—I'm a bit of a Twitter fiend myself, and I don't think I could stay off Pinterest long enough to feed the dog if I got an account. There are quite a lot of good crafts on there, then? Enough to keep even Lily occupied on her weekends, do you think?"

And they were off again, chatting about resources and tools for children, and how bored they got on the weekends, and how easy it was for them to mope about and get distracted by telly they really were too young to be watching, and how awful it was that so much snuck by on family channels, and how some shows really ought to be censored by the government, and just as Mrs. Ramsey was wondering reluctantly if she ought to break the mood with a mention of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Watson's mobile rang.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and pulled it from his pocket, gazing at the screen for a second before he seemed to register the name. He silenced it quickly and stuck it back in his pocket. "Sorry about that."

Mrs. Ramsey had a sudden, violent moment of déjà vu.

"If that was a patient," she began, but Dr. Watson shook his head (she had begun referring to him as Dr. Watson in her head at some point—perhaps it was the dark blue blazer, knit tie, and the loafers, or the fact that he'd _obviously_ been on call all night that made him suddenly seem to fit the title. Or maybe it was that she was now absolutely positive that he hadn't been feeding his daughter illicit tales after all, and that oh yes, she needed to bring up Sherlock Holmes as quickly as possible).

"No, not a patient," Dr. Watson said. "Erm, wrong number."

"Well," Mrs. Ramsey said, "I know you've been on call all night, Dr. Watson, so I'll make this as brief as I can." She glanced down at her notes, and so missed the bemused expression on his face and the sharp, _go with it_ look that passed from Mrs. Watson to her husband. When she glanced up, they were both the picture of innocence.

Oh, how she hated to break their hearts.

"Erm," she began. "Mrs. Watson, Dr. Watson, you remember me mentioning a Mr…" she made a show of looking down at her notes before finishing, "Sherlock Holmes…last time we spoke?"

They exchanged a puzzled look. Or, at least, Mrs. Watson looked puzzled and Dr. Watson simply looked as if he'd rather be home in bed. Judging by Mrs. Watson's expression (and Mrs. Ramsey prided herself on reading parents' expressions), this was news to her. She wasn't sure what to make of Dr. Watson's crinkled, slightly pained expression, so she ignored it.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Watson repeated, eyebrows creased in confusion. "Yes, you said Lily's been mentioning him, but we've spoken to him and I'm quite sure he hasn't talked about his work for weeks now. Since we spoke…I'm sure of it. John, has he talked to you about Lily?"

"No," Dr. Watson said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He seemed about to say more but thought better of it and smiled vaguely at Mrs. Ramsey instead, dropping his hand back awkwardly into his lap. _Twitch._

"Well, I'm afraid he must be," Mrs. Ramsey said very gently. "Because Lily's stories haven't stopped, and since I know they aren't coming from you, I can only assume they're coming from him. I hate to incriminate him without evidence…"

"You wouldn't be the first," Dr. Watson muttered, and she blinked, momentarily stymied, and Dr. Watson noticed her expression and his eyebrows lifted towards his hairline. "Sorry, thinking out loud. Sherlock is a bit of a…an eccentric. That's all."

Mrs. Ramsey had to swallow back a snort, and it turned into a painful sneeze instead. _Eccentric _was mild. She hadn't decided yet if she'd tell the Watsons about his phone call, but she was beginning to think it would be a good idea. "And do you think there's a possibility that he's been telling your daughter stories behind your back?"

Dr. Watson shifted in his chair again. He seemed a little more awake now—his eyes were brighter and he was focusing more on the conversation.

"Well, I'm not sure about that," he began, but Mrs. Ramsey bulled on before he could make a counterargument.

"You see, I got a phone call from him yesterday, and he all but admitted to me that he'd been spending time with your daughter talking about his work. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid he hasn't been entirely honest with you."

"You think?" Dr. Watson asked, lips curving up in a sardonic parody of his charming smile. "It's Sherlock."

"John…"

"It's fine, Mary. I'll have a word with him tonight, and if he can't stop telling Lily rubbish stories about all of his murder scenes he won't be welcome at the house anymore. I won't have my daughter exposed to all of his little experiments and games—poor Mrs. Ramsey has had to deal with the consequences of Sherlock's mistakes long enough." He looked her earnestly, and Mrs. Ramsey, who was slightly taken aback at how well this was going, missed the mixed look of exasperation, hilarity, and the promise of impending doom that Mrs. Watson tossed at her husband. "Mrs. Ramsey, I can only apologize profusely and promise you that it won't happen again."

"Really, John, don't you think banning him from the house is a bit extreme?"

"No, I don't," Dr. Watson said stoutly, and Mrs. Watson held up a placating hand.

"I won't argue with you, darling. You know him better than I do."

"I do." He nodded his head decidedly, but even as Mrs. Ramsey breathed out a silent sigh of relief, her parent radar began to blare. Loudly.

Most people were decent liars. But Mrs. Ramsey could spot a fibbing parent a mile off. This couple, however, was sending the most mixed signals she had ever had the misfortune to read.

Mrs. Watson had been telling the truth from the moment she sat down opposite Mrs. Ramsey. She hadn't breathed an untrue word, let a false facial expression cross her face, or interacted with Mrs. Ramsey or her husband in any way that would suggest blatant falsehoods. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, was lying through his teeth. In fact, he was one of the worst liars she'd ever seen, and that included her five-year-old students.

And Mrs. Watson was agreeing 100% honestly with every single one of his lies.

Mrs. Ramsey felt a headache coming on.

But before she could gear herself up to do a little more digging, Dr. Watson's phone rang again.

"Sorry," he said again, and pulled it from his pocket. "Sorry, but would you mind if I answered this?" He stood without waiting for an answer, looking genuinely apologetic.

"John, who is it?"

"Uh, Beth," he said. "I'll just be a minute."

And he let himself out of the office, shutting the door carefully behind him. Mrs. Ramsey's shoulders slumped involuntarily. A conversation alone with Mrs. Watson was just what the doctor had ordered. But she hadn't figured out a way to phrase the question _why is your husband such a bad liar, and why is lying to my face? _before Mrs. Watson stood too.

"Sorry, if that's Beth it's probably for me too," she said brightly. "I'll be back in a tick."

And before Mrs. Ramsey could voice a protest, (this whole conversation had left her feeling perpetually one step behind), Mrs. Watson had disappeared into the empty classroom after her husband.

* * *

"_John Watson, what did I _tell_ you about going overboard? You were _supposed _to leave the heavy lying to me!"_

"_Hang on, hang on, I thought I was doing fine."_

"_Oh, John…"_

"_All right, what is it? What did I say?"_

"_Too much! Only lies have detail…the truth is much more ambiguous."_

"_I think I might have heard Sherlock say that once. Or twice."_

"_It's a good thing I love you, you know."_

"_Ever wonder if it's a good thing that there's _one_ of us that isn't a bloody psychopath?"_

"_Well, I don't know about psychopaths, but it _would_ be lovely if you were just a tiny bit good at keeping a straight face."_

"_Yeah, I love you too. So…what are going to tell her? This phone call to Beth has gone on long enough."_

"_It's not _we_, it's _me._ I'm going to do the lying. You're going to play the exhausted doctor who's been on call all night."_

"_I sort of _have _been on call all night."_

"_Should be easy then. Speaking of being on call, was that Sherlock on the phone?"_

"_Yeah…I didn't answer. He can wait. Good timing, though."_

"_Yeah, well, text him and tell him you're not on call anymore, will you? He got you all night, and I need you now."_

"_You just basically said I was useless…"_

"_When it comes to the talking bits, yeah, but you're excellent moral support."_

"_Oh gee, thanks."_

* * *

Reviews are still and always and forever appreciated. :)


	5. The Chess Game

At last we near the end. I can confidently say that there will be an epilogue of sorts after this chapter, and then this mutated one-shot will be over.

Thanks so much for all your kind words!

Emrose

* * *

Mrs. Ramsey was starting to feel that she was a pawn in a great chess game that she had entered late with a new set of rules that had not yet been invented. She could see Mrs. Watson's profile in silhouette through the tinted glass of her office door. She couldn't see Dr. Watson at all.

She sat at her desk feeling quite hapless, and suddenly she found the whole thing very amusing. In fact, it took everything she had to hold the giggles in as she watched Mrs. Watson's silhouette bob back and forth in conversation with her husband (wasn't he on the phone? Did they have it on speaker?).

She had never had to deal with this sort of problem before, but then, she supposed she could be forgiven for being out of her depth. Not many primary school teachers had a student like Lily. And not many students had parents like the Watsons.

Just what the Watsons were _like_, she had no idea.

Mrs. Ramsey popped a breath mint into her mouth, took a few deep breaths, and had regained her composure by the time the door opened and the Watsons reentered the room. She took them in at a glance, trying to determine from their body language (Mrs. Watson engaged and sprightly as always, open palms and attentive tilt to her head, coming in ahead of her husband, who closed the door behind him with the air of a man walking to the gallows but had a bemused, resigned twinkle in his eyes when he turned around), but she couldn't piece together a picture that made any sense.

"Sorry about that," Dr. Watson said, lips pressed together in a toothless smile as he settled into his seat again, adjusting his blazer and lacing his fingers calmly in his lap again. "Old family friend."

"Going through some personal problems, poor dear," Mrs. Watson chimed in.

"Oh dear, I do hope she's alright," Mrs. Ramsey said, though now she had the oddest feeling that all three of them were dancing around each other, skirting the edge of the chess board furtively, and that all three of them knew that they were lying to each other. Indeed, they were all content to continue lying through their smiles and charm and inherent politeness if it would let them terminate the interview any faster. She smiled at both of them, and it felt false and stupid on her face. But the Watsons smiled falsely back and nodded, and affirmed that she was indeed all right, and everything was sorted, and sorry for the interruption.

Mrs. Ramsey didn't want to be a pawn anymore.

So she decided to sprint to the far end of the board and queen herself.

"Dr. Watson, I hear that you and Sherlock Holmes were flatmates before you married."

He blinked, nonplussed. "Yes, we were."

"And you solved crimes together?"

He blinked again, and his jaw dropped just a little. His left hand twitched. Then he blinked rapidly several times in succession and cleared his throat. "You looked him up, then, Sherlock? Or was it the blog?"

Mrs. Ramsey was just as shocked as he was. She hadn't expected him to acquiesce to that particular line of inquiry—in fact, she had no idea what had possessed her to ask such a question in the first place. And what blog? But now she had no choice but to play it off and hope that it proved fruitful.

"I looked him up briefly," she said. _Very briefly. _"Quite the…quite the amateur detective, isn't he?"

"Uh, consulting detective," Dr. Watson corrected. He seemed to be avoiding his wife's gaze deliberately. "Yeah. Yes, he's quite good."

"And you helped him on some of his cases?"

"Yes, I did," Dr. Watson said, and then paused for a split-second. "In a medical capacity."

Mrs. Ramsey eyed him carefully. He was telling the truth (or most of it), for the first time since he'd started ranting about Sherlock Holmes, and she was all sorts of wrong-footed again.

"During our conversation yesterday he seemed to think that you wouldn't approve of him telling your daughter stories about his more recent cases," she said, aware that they had already covered this topic but determined to keep the conversation going until she was confident they understood one another. "_Exasperated_, he said." She laughed.

Dr. Watson obliged her with a courtesy chuckle. "I think I've made my position clear on that one," he said. "I'll be having a word with him."

He shot Mrs. Watson a look, then, but she was looking determinedly at Mrs. Ramsey.

"And you stopped going out with him when you took a job at the clinic, is that right?"

"Well, freelance work is hardly means enough to support a family." He smiled. "Sherlock does just fine on his own. More than fine, judging by the stories he tells my daughter."

She was still trying to work out if he'd answered the question or not when his phone rang for a third time. This time, he glanced at the number and stood immediately.

"Sorry, I should take this. I'll be right back."

He opened the door and stepped out into the classroom, but the door didn't quite latch behind him. It was an old door made of thin wood and cheap glass in the windows, and if Mrs. Ramsey didn't close it all the way it tended to quietly groan its way a few inches ajar and settle there, swaying slightly as the cooler turned on and off.

Dr. Watson's voice was slightly muffled as he paced back and forth outside the door, but she could still hear his words clearly.

"_What?"_

An odd way to answer a call, but obviously someone he knew well. She glanced at Mrs. Watson, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. She was looking at the open door, and her lips were ever-so-slightly compressed—the closest Mrs. Ramsey had ever seen her to looking agitated.

Dr. Watson had been silent for several long seconds, and then his voice cut into the silence sharply. _"I'm in a conference. I can't just…no, I'm serious, I can't just come round. You'll have to…yes, you'll have to wait…"_

Mrs. Watson's lips pressed tighter together, and she gestured at the door. "Shall I close that? Sorry, he shouldn't be long, probably just a patient…"

But that was very clearly a lie, because what doctor would tell a patient they'd have to wait in such an exasperated, world-weary tone? Mrs. Ramsey simply clasped her hands in front of her on the desk and smiled.

"Oh, no, don't bother, it was getting rather stuffy in here, don't you think? The cross-breeze will air it out nicely."

This was also a lie—the office wasn't stuffy at all. Mrs. Watson's eyes crinkled, and there passed between them an understanding.

"It's Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?" Mrs. Ramsey asked conversationally. Mrs. Watson sighed and settled back in her chair comfortably.

"Oh, I'm sure it is. John doesn't talk to any of his other friends like they were a 12-year-old child."

Mrs. Ramsey cracked a grin. "Are they quite close, then?"

Out in the classroom, Dr. Watson said loudly, _"You're a right pain in the…you do realize, don't you, that my world doesn't revolve around you? Anymore…what do you mean, anymore? It's never revolved…you arrogant sod. You arrogant…no, this conversation is…what? What?"_

"Close?" Mrs. Watson asked. "I'd say so."

She broke out into a fit of the giggles. Mrs. Ramsey, once she'd gotten over the shock, joined in. And then Dr. Watson was talking again, and they clapped their hands over their mouths, shoulders shaking silently, to listen.

"_What do you mean, there was no blood? A head wound like that should have a lot of…was he murdered somewhere else, dropped off in the sewage?"_

Silence. Mrs. Watson's giggles had stopped abruptly, and her eyes had widened over the top her hand.

"_That doesn't make sense, Sherlock. A message, maybe? A, a threat, or a warning? Any other injuries on the body? The murderer…yeah…two shots to the head, no signs of a struggle? He was taken by surprise, then. Shots to the _back_ of the head, yeah?"_

Mrs. Watson was biting her lip. Mrs. Ramsey's mind had gone curiously blank.

"_Right, right…oh, that's strange. And more than a little disturbing. What sort of maniac…wait, you can't just go running off after a psychopath with a pick axe without backup. Wait for Lestrade to sign…well, no, protocol…Sherlock, shut up and listen. No, I mean it, don't go anywhere yet."_

"Is this a normal sort of conversation for your husband to have?" Mrs. Ramsey was proud that her voice only cracked a little on the last word, and that it was only a pitch or two higher than it usually was. Mrs. Watson's lips twitched. She looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I'm afraid it is."

"I see."

Dr. Watson's footsteps were a little faster out in the classroom—he was clearly agitated. _"I told you, I'm in a conference. Talking about Lily. You remember, don't you, her poor teacher and all of your stories? Yeah, this call isn't helping much, Sherlock. Impeccable timing, as always. Are you…are you in a cab? Didn't I _tell _you to stay where you were? Don't you dare…no, don't you dare go after him without me. I mean it. Yes, of course I'll come, you idiot. I certainly can't have you dashing about the London sewage system alone. Get out of that bloody cab and wait. Can you give me fifteen minutes? Fifteen. That's all I'm asking. Let me wrap this up and I'll…what? Yes, fifteen."_

A silence. Mrs. Watson's foot was tapping gently against the floor. She seemed torn between embarrassment and hilarity.

"_Yes, I'll bring my gun."_

Mrs. Watson closed her eyes.

"_We'll have to swing by the flat. No, I didn't bring it with me. I was expecting all the murderers in London to hold off murdering people until _after_ I'd finished dinner tonight." _

Mrs. Ramsey snorted despite herself. Mrs. Watson buried her face in her hands. She was giggling again.

"_All right, yes, I'll be there. Text Lestrade. I'll ask Mary. I'm sure she'll be fine, she knows I haven't been out in a while."_

Mrs. Ramsey's jaw dropped, quite literally, and Mrs. Watson's bright blue eyes twinkled at her between her spread fingers.

"Not leaving many Watson family secrets uncovered, is he?" she asked. Mrs. Ramsey shook her head mutely.

"_Yeah, ok…ok. And not a word of this to my daughter, understand? Not until I've approved your version of events. What do you mean, I'm the one that does all the exaggerating? I wasn't the one who told her about the beheaded corpse in the laundry chute…yes, it _was_ you, she told me it was when I asked her about it last week. What? No, Mary…Mary's stories aren't as technical as yours are, Sherlock. I know your murder cases from hers. Yeah, I'm not completely stupid."_

Mrs. Ramsey had the feeling that she should be feeling a certain amount of anger or outrage, but all she could summon was a sense of relief.

She wasn't the crazy one. The Watsons were.

Dr. Watson's voice was getting closer again. The conversation seemed to be wrapping up.

"_I've still got fifteen. Let me wrap this up. I'll call you when I'm on my way—don't do anything stupid. Yeah, ok. I'll call you."_

They heard him sigh loudly, and then the footsteps neared the door. Mrs. Watson had taken her hands from her face, and was now watching the door with a calm, pleasant expression that Mrs. Ramsey recognized as the look that wives gave their husbands when they were going to spend the night on the couch.

The footsteps stopped, and Mrs. Ramsey could see part of Dr. Watson's silhouette at the window, frozen for a long second. There was a soft, brief string of expletives as he noticed the open door. Another second of silence. Then the door slowly opened with a loud, painful creak and Dr. Watson stepped inside with the look of a man who _knew _he going to spend the night on the couch.

Mrs. Watson smiled sweetly at her husband, and then glanced at Mrs. Ramsey, who knew that she looked as if she'd just been run over by a bus. She no longer knew if she were a pawn, the queen, or the poor miserable rook who had just been sacrificed at the altar for a checkmate.

Just who had checkmated who, she didn't know.

"John, darling, I think we owe Mrs. Ramsey an apology."

* * *

_"It could have been worse."_

"_How? How could it have _possibly_ been worse?"_

"_Calm down, John…"_

"_I am calm. I'm calm."_

"_It's fine. She seemed fine."_

"_She was in shock."_

"_She was, wasn't she? Poor woman."_

"_Poor woman indeed. Why we ever thought we could get away with this I don't know..."_

"_After all the murderers you've outwitted, the great John Watson taken down by a primary school teacher. Poetic justice, isn't it?"_

"_Sarcasm does not become you, Mary."_

"_Don't you have a pick axe murderer to catch?"_

"_Oh, right, yes. I'll be late. Don't wait up."_

"_You know I always wait up."_

"_I know. Love you."_

"_Love you too."_

* * *

Look for an epilogue in the next few days! Thanks so much for reading, and reviews are always welcome!


	6. The Truth

A final chapter/epilogue of sorts. It doesn't quite fit with the end John/Mary conversation of the last chapter, because once again Sherlock invaded the story and changed how I was going to end it.

But this story is, finally, completed.

Thanks all for hanging on for the ride!

Emrose

* * *

Later, when she looked back on that afternoon, she doubted her own memory. From the moment she had sat across from Mrs. Watson and overheard that strangest of one-sided phone calls to the first awkward, stilted explanations from an embarrassed Dr. Watson, nothing had seemed quite real. She found herself wanting to explain it all away, but she couldn't find any possible explanation that fit all the facts like the truth did.

Which, she supposed, was the way the truth worked.

But that didn't make it any less unbelievable.

"So, there's the whole of it," Dr. Watson had concluded, settling back in his chair and glancing at his wife, who had chimed in several times during the course of the conversation to correct this or that or add a detail he'd forgotten (or deliberately left out, going by the disgruntled look on his face).

"So, you're…an ex-CIA agent," Mrs. Ramsey directed to Mrs. Watson, who shrugged, a smile twitching at her lips. Her eyes were sparkling, and despite the fact that the Watson family's dirty laundry had been well and truly aired despite her best efforts to keep it tucked away, she seemed more relaxed than ever, if that were possible.

"Afraid so," she said cheerfully.

"And you're an army veteran now working as a GP who runs round with Sherlock Holmes and solves crimes for the Yard," Mrs. Ramsey said.

"Uh, yeah, that sums it up," Dr. Watson said, and though he still looked exhausted, he too looked cheerful. "If you've got any questions, you might as well ask them now."

"Erm," Mrs. Ramsey said. "About Sherlock Holmes…where does he figure…"

But before she could finish the question, Mrs. Watson had giggled, Dr. Watson's eyebrows had lifted in…affection? Exasperation? Apprehension? And, at quite the same time, the office door burst open and a long, lanky figure in a billowing black coat and a mass of curly hair fell into the room.

"John, the trail," it said in a crisp, breathless baritone. "The _trail. _Oh, we haven't had one of these in _months. Really _sorry to burst in like this, but we're out of time. Lestrade is on his way and if his idiots get there first they'll send the rat deeper into his hole and we'll never catch him. Hello, Mary, how's the conference? Left Lily with Mrs. Hudson, no need to worry, she's being force-fed biscuits and looking through photo albums of the 'old glory days', apparently. Come along, John, I've got the cab waiting."

Mrs. Ramsey had felt her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. This wild, bright-eyed, pale figure in the posh suit and cream silk shirt and black leather gloves who was even now fixing her with a penetrating gaze and allowing a slow, mischievous smile to creep onto his long, thin face was both identical to and the exact opposite of what she'd imagined belonged to the voice on the phone.

"Sherlock, I told you to stay put, I _said_ I'd phone you," Dr. Watson said, half-standing automatically and grunting as Sherlock Holmes' arm shot out and pulled him the rest of the way to his feet.

"No time, John," he had said, and bent around him to wave at Mary. "You don't mind if I take him for the evening, do you Mary?"

"Don't let him do anything stupid," she said comfortably, and exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Ramsey (or, rather, Mrs. Watson gave her a knowing look and Mrs. Ramsey gave her a rabbit-in-the-headlights one in return) "And don't _you_ do anything stupid either, Sherlock."

"Mary," Dr. Watson began despairingly, but Sherlock grinned and tugged John towards the door so hard that the doctor had to fling out a hand and catch himself on the edge of Mrs. Ramsey's desk.

"We never do. Come _along_, John…"

But Dr. Watson had planted his feet firmly on the floor, and half-turned towards Mrs. Ramsey. "I'm so sorry about this," he started to say, but he only made it halfway towards her before his head snapped back around and fixed on Sherlock Holmes' left coat pocket.

"Is that my gun?"

Mrs. Ramsey lifted a hand to her heart. Mary made a noise of mingled indignation and amusement. Sherlock Holmes' forehead creased.

"Maybe?"

"Of all the…bringing that into a school!" Mrs. Ramsey had found her voice at his point, and even risen from her chair with the force of her outrage. "How dare you?"

"Mrs. Ramsey, how good to meet you," Sherlock Holmes said, and a warm, charming smile spread across his face. "I do believe we've spoken." He let go of Dr. Watson's arm and stretched out his hand across the desk to her. Her natural instinct was to take it, but she clasped her hands in front of her instead and glared at him pointedly. He didn't seem fazed, and simply withdrew his hand and turned back to Dr. Watson, who had turned to stone.

"And this is your idea of a good way to handle this today? Couldn't have used one of your other 'one or two ideas,' could you?" he asked. But he didn't seem to be expecting an answer, and Sherlock Holmes only smirked in a smug, self-satisfied sort of way. Mrs. Watson sighed audibly from behind her husband. "Alright, give it here," Dr. Watson said, holding out a hand stiffly. Sherlock shook his head with a wounded look and tossed a glance at Mrs. Ramsey as if to appeal to her sense of humanity. She bristled.

"Give what here? Really, John, we're losing time…"

Mrs. Watson snorted. Dr. Watson folded his arms. "Don't make me take it from you."

"Take what?"

"Oh, for…"

What happened next was another of those moments that Mrs. Ramsey wasn't sure had happened later, and even as it happened she wasn't sure that she could believe her eyes. Dr. Watson stepped forward, hard-armed Sherlock in the shoulder, twisted his arm up and away, and pulled a black handgun seamlessly from the left coat pocket with his free hand. Sherlock Holmes hardly had time to gasp in protest before Dr. Watson had examined the gun, fiddled effortlessly with it for a second, popped the clip free, and stuffed it deep into the pocket of his blazer.

"Really, Sherlock?"

"John, we're going to need…"

"Not fully loaded and cocked right now, in this school, in this office," Dr. Watson said. There was a note of steel in his voice, and for the first time, Mrs. Ramsey saw the sort of man that could run around the sewers of London hunting down a pick axe murderer instead of the tired, kindly general practitioner that had sat in her office all afternoon.

"But out _there_…"

"Out there, _I _will carry the gun, and _I _will load it when I think we need it, and _I_ will be the one handling the firearm, because frankly, I don't trust you with it."

"Why don't you trust me with it?" Sherlock Holmes was both outraged and curious, and he caught Mrs. Ramsey staring at him and tossed her a quick wink. Mrs. Ramsey sat down in her chair with a gasp.

"Because you're the kind of bloke who scratches your head with a it, points it at your best friend's head, and carries it fully loaded in your back pocket," Dr. Watson said dryly. "Now go on, out, before you give Mrs. Ramsey a heart attack." He turned, bent and kissed Mrs. Watson on the cheek. "We'll be back late. See you at the house. Don't wait up."

"You know I always do."

"Yeah, I know." He smiled at her affectionately, and then reached across the desk and took Mrs. Ramsey's hand. "I am really, really sorry about all this. And about him." He threw his head at Sherlock, who growled in annoyance. Dr. Watson ignored him, smiled lopsidedly, and released her hand. "Good luck with Lil."

And then he had grabbed a griping Sherlock Holmes around the bicep and was hustling the much taller man out the door, stuffing the barrel of the gun in the waistband of his trousers with his free hand. He turned, sent Mrs. Ramsey a last charming grin, and shut the door firmly behind them both.

The silence was deafening.

Mrs. Ramsey had never had cause to use that oxymoron before, but she decided then and there that it fit this moment perfectly. When she finally tore her gaze from the door, it wandered slowly over to rest on Mrs. Watson, who was looking at her with drawn eyebrows as if waiting for her to explode.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes creasing with a suppressed smile.

"Yes," Mrs. Ramsey breathed, though she didn't think that was true. "Yes, I think so."

There was another silence. Mrs. Ramsey remembered how to breathe.

Mrs. Watson cleared her throat.

"So," she said. "Tell me more about Pinterest."

* * *

The End. Thanks once again for reading!


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